XI

A Burial

As we were taking our places at table M.
Gilbert asked, "For what hour have
they set the burial of Lieutenant
Limberg?"

"Three o'clock, Monsieur," the faithful
Auguste replied to the head doctor; "an
infantry guard has been asked for; it will be
furnished by the lieutenant's own battalion. This
battalion is unloading guns and ammunition at
Morcourt."

"Good! Ask Bénezech to come here."

And we gave ourselves up to the bitter-sweet joys
of a cucumber salad. September was passing, but
the brazier of the Somme had redoubled its fury.
The grumbling of the guns filled all space,
exactly as if a drama were taking place in the
bowels of the earth. We were rather stupefied
after having passed several sleepless nights,
nights spent in struggling against this torrent of
blood and in rescuing the human wreckage from it.
Lieutenant Limberg was one of the saddest cases;
we had taken him in tow three weeks before and all
at once he had slipped his cable, struck down by a
nasty case of meningitis, stammering, dreaming the
most extravagant things out loud--things that made
him hideous and gave death the appearance of some
frightful comedy.

There is nothing more painful, nothing that
offends the soul more, than to watch the ravings
and sufferings of these men who have been wounded
in the head, to see a young lad of twenty
degenerate. How many times, wearing myself out in
the midst of these shameful spectacles, have I
wished that those who hold in their hands the
destiny of peoples might be allowed to contemplate
them. But let's speak no more of that. Alas! we
can never give imagination to those who don't
possess it. Let's speak no more of that, and
return to the burial of Limberg.

We were struggling with a tough slice of beef,
when Bénezech entered.

The Abbé Bénezech, a hospital nurse of the
second
class, performed several functions, including
those of secretary and chaplain. He was a plump
man with a slow wit and a majestic chin. He
allowed his beard to grow untended and felt very
keenly the lack of those little attentions at
which devoted parishioners are so adept. Far too
holy a man to attach much importance to matters of
his toilet, he had gradually turned into a sort of
neglected old bachelor. He practised patience,
waiting until they should return him to the
delicate ministrations of his parish.

"Bénezech," said M. Gilbert, familiarly,
"at what hour are you to bury Lieutenant
Limberg?"

"At three o'clock, Monsieur le
Médecin-chef."

"The body is laid out?"

"It's been placed in the tortoise."

"Good! Was the lieutenant a Catholic?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, Monsieur! Thanks be to
God, I gave him the communion yesterday!"

"Then everything's all right. Thank you,
Bénezech."

The attendant went out. We returned to our
somnolent state and to a dish of noodles which
was
well calculated to discourage the appetite. When
the meal was about over, an orderly entered and
handed a card to M. Gilbert.

"The officer," he added, "insists
on seeing you at once."

M. Gilbert returned the card with the attentive
air of a man who is falling asleep.

"Well," he sighed, "bring him in
here, then." And he added, as he turned
toward us, "Second-lieutenant David. Do you
know him? No?"

The second-lieutenant was already pushing open the
door. He wore a little infantryman's cap over his
tightly crisped hair. Heavy lips, a tiny curled
mustache, the magnificent dark eyes of a Smyrniot
merchant, a suggestion of obesity, short plump
hands.

"Monsieur le Médecin-chef," he said,
"my battalion is going up into the line and I
have profited by our passing to ask you for
permission to see one of your wounded, my best
friend, Lieutenant Limberg."

M. Gilbert, who had a mobile little nose,
expressed by a slight gymnastic turn of that organ
that he was very much disturbed.

"Give the lieutenant a chair," he began,
with the presence of mind of a man who knows how
to announce painful news. Then he continued:
"My poor friend, what I must tell you about
Lieutenant Limberg is very sad: the unfortunate
man had a very severe wound in the head, and . .
."

"He is dead?" asked the infantry
officer, in a colorless voice.

"Yes, he is dead. We are to bury him to-day
at three o'clock."

Lieutenant David remained for some time without
moving. A nervous twitching began to agitate one
side of his face. He seemed overcome and mopped
his forehead, damp with sudden sweat. We
respected this very evident grief. At the end of
a moment he rose, gave the military salute, and
prepared to take his leave.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," he said; "he
was my best friend."

With a preoccupied air he extended to all of us a
fat, moist hand, and was about to go out,
when he
stopped a moment on the threshold.

"One word more, Monsieur le Médecin-chef: my
friend Limberg was an Israelite. I myself am an
Israelite. It is perhaps not immaterial to tell
you this."

And he went out. There was a brief silence; then
M. Gilbert began, with an accelerated rhythm, to
rap the table with the handle of his knife.

"What was it he said? Limberg a Jew? This
is too much! Call Bénezech."

M. Gilbert was a headstrong man, violent,
explosive in his reactions. He seemed to have
forgotten the heat, his lassitude, his digestion.
With a furious ardor he flung little bread-balls
into all the corners of the room. He had the
concentrated, terrible air of a cartridge that
feels the fuse burning. He stopped Bénezech short
on the doorsill by a display of his vocal
resources that left no room for doubt as to his
own feelings.

"Ah! It's you! Well! You were going to get
me into a nice mess again!"

"Monsieur le Médecin-chef!"

"Lieutenant Limberg, yes! Very well! He was
a Jew, and you were going to make me bury him a
Catholic!"

"A Jew?"

"Exactly, a Jew!"

The abbé gave a smile of supreme incredulity:
"He was not a Jew, Monsieur le Médecin-chef,
for I gave him the holy communion only
yesterday."

M. Gilbert stopped short, like a horse face to
face with a wheelbarrow. Then he murmured, as if
in a dream, "Yes . . . Well, it looks as
if some one were making a fool of me."

"Oh! Monsieur le Médecin-chef!"
protested the abbé, and he raised his hands, palms
to the front, with a grace surprising in a soldier
who cheerfully wore his puttees in corkscrews
about his ankles.

"You have given him the communion,"
continued M. Gilbert; "yes, evidently. But
what did he say about it?"

"I don't know just what he could have
said," interrupted the faithful Auguste,
"seeing that he hasn't been able, for more
than ten days past, to talk reasonably."

"I am amazed, Monsieur le Médecin-chef. I
should never have insulted him by asking him,
especially in the sad condition in which he was.
Besides, he came here with several holy medals
about his neck. I myself gave him several and he
received them very gladly."

"Evidently," said M. Gilbert, "all
this is not very clear. You tell me Limberg was a
Catholic. Very well! I have just been assured
from another quarter that he was a Jew. First of
all, you are to send for the rabbi of the
stretcher-bearers' division. Afterward, to make
more sure, send a cyclist to Limberg's battalion,
at Morcourt. We shall find out from the
corps."

Bénezech went out, raising his hands several
times, his fingers spread, in token of
embarrassment.

"Let's go to the tortoise," suggested M.
Gilbert, getting up from the table.

It was an unused tent, full of holes, under which
the religious ceremonies were performed and where
the corpse was placed on its bier.

Limberg's coffin was lying there on two boxes,
wrapped in an old flag. A ray of sunlight, filled
with a twinkling whirlwind of gnats, cut the
shadow obliquely. A few chickens were picking at
the fine gravel. This funereal spot seemed like a
haven of calm on the edge of the tumult of the
war.

An attendant came in, stuck two candles on the
table, lighted them, and placed a crucifix between
them.

"The devil!" said M. Gilbert.
"Affairs like this are a perfect
nuisance!"

As we were coming out of the tent we perceived
Bénezech and the cyclist. Bénezech's very beard
looked triumphant. With his fingers to his képi
he saluted like one giving a benediction, and said
in a celestial voice:

"Information from the battalion, Monsieur le
Médecin-chef: Lieutenant Limberg was a
Catholic."

"By the twenty gods!" exclaimed M.
Gilbert. "You have a written note?"

"No," answered the cyclist, "the
officers simply consulted together and replied
that he was Catholic. As for that, you can see
these gentlemen at once; they are coming for the
burial with the guard of infantry."

M. Gilbert pawed the ground. He was quite red and
the end of his nose made little spasmodic
movements which announced the imminence of a
decision.

"May I prepare for the service?" asked
Bénezech, with the candid, restrained air of a man
who will not abuse a victory.

"What?" said M. Gilbert, "the
service? Prepare for it! Prepare for it! I have
my own idea now."

The faithful Auguste, who had left us a few
minutes before, came back, examining a bundle of
envelopes.

"I have looked through the personal
belongings of the lieutenant," he said.
"There is nothing conclusive except this
post-card signed by a certain Monsieur Blumenthal
who calls
Lieutenant Limberg his cousin.
Blumenthal! That's Jewish."

"Perhaps," said M. Gilbert, "but
that makes no difference to me now. I've got an
idea of my own."

"It is true," continued Auguste,
hesitatingly, "we could still have the coffin
opened."

"No, that would tell nothing," broke in
M. Gilbert. "And besides, I tell you once
more, I have my own idea. Let's get to
work."

Thereupon we returned to our work, which continued
until half-past two. At this moment the orderly
reappeared:

"Monsieur le Médecin-chef, it's the Jewish
chaplain, I understand. He wishes to see
you."

"I'm coming," said the chief.

He put on his handsome képi with its four stripes,
took off his blouse, and went out.

From the window I watched the arrival of the
divisional rabbi. I saw him get down from what
looked like a junk-dealer's cart, hitched to a
knockkneed mule. With his black skullcap, his
long flowing beard, his tall swaying body, his
frock-coat, his staff, he made me think of the
Jews of the popular romances. He seemed very old
and descended from the cart-step with the majesty
of a patriarch.

Full of curiosity, I went out to see a little of
what was going on. Twenty steps from the cart, at
a turn of the path, I saw the rabbi again, without
at first recognizing him. He had a curling black
beard, a slight figure, a great deal of assurance,
the smile of an Assyrian god, and something in his
eyes that was like a reflection of the Eastern
Mediterranean.

I went around a shed and found myself suddenly
nose to nose with the chief and the Jewish
chaplain. I saw at once that I had been twice
mistaken: he was neither the Wandering Jew of the
newspaper romances nor the Levantine Semite of the
great ports of commerce. He was a man of the
world, without any definite age, wearing
eyeglasses, with a studious and attentive air and
something distant and professorial about him: the
"distinguished" manner of a fellow of
the university. He spoke the slightly
cosmopolitan
French of a learned man who
understands six or eight languages and pronounces
none of them quite correctly.

"Inteet, Monsieur le het doctor," he was
saying, "we haf many Limpergs in the East. I
know seferal such families myself."

"That is quite possible," replied M.
Gilbert, courteously. "To be brief, I have
made a certain decision. Come this way,
chaplain."

We made our way slowly toward the tent. As we
were just about there, the ground shook under the
rapid beat of a little band of soldiers on the
march and the infantry guard appeared. Several
officers followed at a distance. Every one halted
before the tent and we saw Bénezech come out. He
had covered his jacket with an ancient surplice,
which looked like a veteran not only of this
present war but of all the wars of the last
century.

"Gentlemen," said the head doctor,
gravely, "a very annoying thing has happened.
We cannot find out with absolute certitude what
the religion of Lieutenant Limberg was. The
information you sent us seems to show that he was
a Catholic."

"And even a communicant," added Bénezech
in the brief silence that fell.

"May I ask you on what you based your
information?"

The officers looked at one another as if taken by
surprise.

"By Jove!" said one of them, "he
never told us he was a Jew!"

"But yet--"

"Well, I know one certain fact," said a
captain. He went to mass with me several
times."

"But, confound it!" shouted M. Gilbert,
"that roves nothing! I often go myself, from
time to time. It's true," he added, "I
am not a Jew. As for Limberg, one of his most
intimate friends came to see me this very day; he
told me that the lieutenant was an
Israelite."

A new silence fell. The infantry were forming
groups in the avenue. The audience had a
hesitating, troubled air. The two priests had not
yet looked at each other and seemed to be giving
great attention to the officers' uniforms.

Just then two stretcher-bearers came out of the
tent, carrying on a litter the bier with its
tricolor draperies. They took three steps and,
suddenly, there was the corpse between the priest
and the rabbi. M. Gilbert stopped them with a
gesture.

"Gentlemen," said the head doctor, in
the voice of a sage who is remembering Solomon,
"gentlemen, since we are in doubt, I have
decided that Lieutenant Limberg shall be buried
according to both the Catholic and the Hebrew
rites. In that way there will be no error, only
an excess of zeal. We know that God will
recognize His own. These gentlemen will perform
in turn. I believe that I am doing a just and
wise thing."

The officers shook their heads in a way not to
express any sort of opinion. The two priests for
the first time looked at each other. They
exchanged glances across the coffin and bowed as
if they had never seen each other before. They
both assumed, spontaneously, a curious smile; but
the eyes had no part in it: they gazed at each
other like two persons of the same family who,
having fallen out twenty centuries before, have
met again at the house of some business man.

The stake between them was not a soul, but this
box with its rigid body, disfigured by ten days of
agony, this box covered with the symbolic cloth
which the breeze stirred lightly.

The two priests looked at each other with interest
for a long moment. On one side the country cure,
with the heavy limbs of a peasant, on the other
the refined, cosmopolitan rabbi, with his complex
smile, as old as the Bible.

"It's true," whispered the faithful
Auguste into my ear, "Bénezech gets them a
great deal oftener than the other fellow; he could
afford to let him have one from time to
time."

"Keep still, you!" said M. Gilbert, who
had overheard. "You are an idiot to talk
like that: this is a very serious matter."

Bénezech had just given a slight shrug with his
shoulders; he lowered his eyes and stammered:

"Monsieur le Médecin-chef, if Lieutenant
Limberg was really an Israelite, I think it better
for me to retire."

"Do as you think best, Bénezech," said
M. Gilbert.

The rabbi continued to smile. He had the patient
face of a believer who knows that the Messiah has
already failed once to be at the rendezvous and
that perhaps it will be necessary to wait for him
a few million years longer.

"Then," said Bénezech, quite low,
"I withdraw, Monsieur le Médecin-chef."
He took a few steps, and we heard him murmur as he
moved off: "The main thing is for him to have
received the communion; and he has received it,
twice."

The rabbi still smiled, as if he were thinking to
himself, "As for me, I stay."

M. Gilbert made a gesture. We heard the shout of
an order, and every one lifted his hand to his
képi.